


Quite Contrary

by mellish



Category: Death Note
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-04
Updated: 2008-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 01:03:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wedy can't remember when she starts stealing, or why.  All she knows is that it feels very, very good.  Written in 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quite Contrary

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Week #14 - Wedy, at [dn_contest](dn_contest).

Mary can't remember when she starts stealing, or why. All that she knows is that it feels _very, very good_ to take something that is totally not hers; and part of the pleasure comes from knowing that she doesn't need _any of it_. The Kenwoods, after all, are not poor: they have a villa in Washington and a Fifth-Avenue apartment in New York, aside from their mansion in Colorado. They are also not to be associated with any matters of indecency, including gambling, adultery, and blackmail (all of which, unfortunately, they must occasionally engage in; but influence always trumps justice in the end, so no worries).

The fact of the matter is, if anyone even _dares_ to accuse that sweet Mary Kenwood - with her golden curls, her full lips (and she is certainly going to make it big in Hollywood one day), and her degree in Criminal Psychology – is a master thief, then they are in for a long and painful trial, which will inevitably result in imprisonment. If the hired, er, bodyguards don't strike first.

Also, Mary is good at what she does. She doesn't want to be a burglar just because it's easy; that would be an insult to her intelligence, and not fun, anyway. (It's the fun that keeps her at it, really, even when she runs the risk of getting caught so high she can hardly vault over it.)

The more complex a problem is, the more she wants to solve it; that includes alarm systems and locks on safety-boxes. She pretends that the blueprints on her desk are nothing more than homework from her elective in Architecture, and that the Yale locks strewn about her room are requirements for her thesis on 'Numbers as a Form of Code'. No one pries; if anyone asks what she does in her room all day, she simply raises an eyebrow and mutters something coy about boys and open windows. It hardly seems like a lie.

From the fruits of her labor, she is able to deposit in the bank twice every month. The first deposit is whatever her parents give her as monthly allowance; the second is whatever she manages to pilfer from the city's deepest pockets and biggest troublemakers. She affixes her signature neatly, beneath the typed millions and the shiny asterisks; her vowels have curlicues and the 'n' at the end of her name is sliced through with a brilliant flourish. The bank teller gapes at her, almost rudely.

_Well_. She can't blame the poor girl.

After all, she _is_ twenty-one, beautiful, and brilliant; she is also filthy rich, and part of high society by birthright. The only thing she needs, now, is a hot boyfriend to hang on her arm and fool around with when she needs a diversion; but no one seems worth it so far, and besides, she's in no hurry.

She picks up the wad of bills from the counter and considers her next purchase. A Louis Vuitton, or maybe Prada, for a change? - _no_, and suddenly she knows what she wants, and goes off grinning to get it.

Her older sister rolls her eyes when she drives a shiny black motorbike into their garage, and peels off her sexy black helmet to shake the sweat from her curls. "Jeez, Mary. You aren't _Catwoman_."

Mary smiles. If they only knew the half of it.

\---

 

The room stinks of crime. She can smell the sweat of infidelity and the smoke of corruption, clinging stubbornly to the walls; there are even some stains on the wooden flooring that could be dried blood, but it's hard to tell with all these shadows. She keeps to her crouch against the wall, impassively rubbing the back of her neck while she checks her watch for the tenth time. She can feel the blood slowly firing up in her veins – the closer it gets to crunch time, the quicker her heart beats – just a little more.

Her fingers itch. Two minutes.

The room stinks of crime, and she loves it.

It wasn't easy, getting around the building's security; the owner had it tied up with three different companies, and he had professional counter-hackers working against the decoders that would undo the system. She had to duplicate two voice signatures and use some connections to get the floor plan – something she didn't normally resort to doing – but the pay was good and the challenge was even better. It took weeks for her to reach this moment – here and now, kneeling against the doorframe with her heart pounding like a snare drum, ready for the security to crumble around her like oatmeal cookies. _Those weeks had better be worth it_, she thinks.

Thirty seconds.

When the telltale _beep_ on the inset of her wrist fails to sound, she instantly knows that something is wrong – even before the room is flooded with light, and even before a voice says (from speakers she is _absolutely certain were not in the floor plan_), "Game over, thief." The adrenaline in her body shoots into overdrive – she gets up, and runs to the window she knows is always open, just in the next hallway – _shit, whatever happened to the system, I thought I had it perfectly configured_ – the window is barred, the hallway is still shot through with light, she's going blind and she's going to scream but that would be giving herself away, and what now – what the hell happened – just plain _what??_ -

"It's no use running," and the voice is everywhere, eerie and misshapen and sounding rather like a robot child with pneumonia. "I have blocked all your possible escape routes. If you hold still for a moment, I will dim the lights so your vision can properly adjust." And now it's being – _polite_? She's confused. She stands stark still in the middle of the hall, and realizes with slowly growing horror that leather is the most uncomfortable clothing material in the world. Unexpectedly, the lights dim; the omnipresent voice is _genuine_, too.

"Miss Kenwood," it says, "I have cause to believe that you have been burgling several influential and powerful people for some time now. I can tell you that at least ten of them have come to me asking for your capture." There's a pause and a metallic sound that somehow resembles someone sucking – er, lollipops? (Oh god. She's so nervous she's hearing things.) "I can also tell you that I can now hand you over to any one of them, for a reward that is twice as much as what you were planning to steal."

Her eyes, if they weren't cleverly concealed behind night vision goggles, might have popped right then. She manages, at last, to detach her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

"Holy shit."

The voice ignores her, and continues, "You've got an impressive reputation on several detective's records. I can assure you, it takes a lot to get listed in mine. It makes me admire you, rather." The demented voice pauses. "In fact, I do believe that turning you over to the law would be a waste of your talents."

She strains to hear without shuddering. Is it actually saying _good_ things?

"So, Miss Kenwood, I am willing to strike a deal with you. I won't turn you in. In exchange for that, you must agree to stop stealing for a few months, enough to satisfy my clients that you're gone – you may resume again afterwards at your own risk, but please, don't get so cocky that you fail to cover up your tracks." She winces. Despite everything, she still can't stand the implied insult. "Additionally, you must work for me whenever I need you, in a case. How does that sound?"

She grinds her teeth. As if she's even got a _choice_. "Go to hell." Eloquently.

"I could set all the alarms off in that house right now," the voice intones aloofly. "It wouldn't take the police five minutes to get there."

The threat breaks her resolve. She folds her arms and leans – no, _lounges_, against the barred window. She may have lost, but she can at least look cool while she's at it.

"Fine. It's a deal." She glares up at wherever the voice might be coming from. "Though I certainly hope you go to hell for this."

"I knew you would listen to reason," the voice responds, with a shudder at the end that nearly sounds like a snicker.

\---

 

In a way, she decides afterwards, it's flattering that she's expert enough to be chased down by _L_. (She learns that it's him because she's still got some brains; it isn't so hard to dig up the dirt in the black market.) He is, after all, the greatest detective in the world. That must mean that she ranks among the world's best burglars. She knows for a fact that L is unerring, as far as justice goes, so he must really want her skills if he's willing to keep her out of prison.

"But you must change your name," the synthesized voice in her celphone says. "It's awkward to keep calling you Miss Kenwood. It sounds like a movie-star."

She thinks that Wedy sounds rather like an ugly cartoon. It comes out of the blue. She certainly doesn't _pick_ it. (More like she can't remember doing so.) But it sticks. Terribly.

She's twenty-six, and she has just been forced to stop her brilliant career as a master criminal. It's a shame, really. But, well, she's still got her looks. And her money – L didn't demand any financial compensation for her freedom. Not that she thinks he needs it.

At least the detective's as good as his word. She severs her already fraying ties with her family, and lays low for a while. She even tries going brunette. (Big mistake. The months it takes to grow out are pure torture.)

In the meantime she accepts cases from Watari. There's a difference between L and Watari, she realizes - only L says weird things. (They reach her through scrambled connections, emails in binary, mysterious messages tucked into coffee packets – how do they _do_ it?) Most of the missions involve breaking into mafia hideouts and drug lord pads, difficult jobs, but nothing too threatening. Best of all, they're reasonably researched, with reasonable payments. (Except for that one time she receives the order to learn the secret recipe of a certain chocolate brand. She figures that it has to do with poison or smuggled drugs, and doesn't ask.)

\---

 

When L asks her to help with the Kira case, she is twenty-nine. Still beautiful, still brilliant, and still filthy rich. And more mature now, certainly. Getting caught at missions - not that it ever happens - seems nearly trifling to her; what's more important is that she maintains her cool, does the job well, and earns enough to keep herself looking classy.

She has been doing her own thing, lately, peeling away from L's clutches to take another swing at crime. She agrees to do missions on anything and everything that suits her fancy, hacking politician's bank accounts one day and pursuing casino owners on bike the next. She wants to keep limber – and recently she's been getting attacks of premature midlife crisis, but that's a secret.

"You're going to Japan in a few days. L believes you have established enough trust between you, and says he will meet you in person." Watari informs her.

"Okay," she answers. Coolly. (She wonders, briefly, if L is handsome. And how old he is. Probably very.) She clicks her celphone shut, and starts to pack.

Wedy can't remember when she starts stealing. Or why. It certainly screwed up her life in a lot of ways. For instance – she is not particularly keen on getting involved with a universal mass murder case. But when L hands her a mission, she agrees. (She has to.)

Sometimes this _not knowing_ annoys her, enough to keep her up at night, doing crunches just to pass the time.

But she always eventually decides that it doesn't matter. And it's only fair.

She's still the girl who has everything.


End file.
